Haunting
by RadiantSeraphina
Summary: James Moriarty is a ghost haunting 221b Baker Street, and he's determined to break Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own (sadly) the wonderful series ****_Sherlock._**

**A/N: **As an aside, this fic exists in the universe of the unaired pilot of _A Study in Pink_. The only important differences (as far as this is concerned) are that Moriarty was not involved with the cabbie, and the cabbie ended up drugging Sherlock and attempted to kill him in his flat.

The death of James Moriarty is spectacular only in that it was spectacularly dull and disappointing. He dies from a random, chaotic shooter, who went on a shooting spree in London's streets. James expects nothingness as he falls to the ground, blood flowing too quickly to be staunched. He falls and remains motionless, gasping for breath, on the steps of a flat somewhere on Baker Street. He can't remember. He can't-

There isn't nothing. Instead, he finds himself haunting the flat, the place on 221 Baker Street. It's dull. The landlady is dull. Everything is dull.

Who knew death could be so _boring_?

The landlady is so dull that she's hardly worth noticing, much less tormenting.

A man rents the flat. Moriarty watches as the tall man with pale skin and dark hair brings in a motley assortment of _things—_books, beakers, furniture, a _skull_, a violin, and such. The man scatters the things about with a strange sort of chaos that almost seems deliberate. Moriarty doubts that he could remember where the pale man put anything, but he has no doubt that the man knows _exactly _where all his things are. The man is alone. He has few visitors.

Moriarty dubs him 'Sir Never-sees-sun' and watches him.

The man is chaotic and wild and _brilliant_. It's marvelous watching him. He deduces, baffles the greying Scotland Yard officer that enters the flat. Moriarty thinks that the man is like him. He is brilliant—oh, _so _brilliant, and Moriarty has been so very bored.

Morarity had long learned that he could manipulate the house and its occupants. He does small things—moving a thing or two, but when the man notices, he merely scoffs and utters the word (name?) "Mycroft."

Moriarty hates Mycroft for making his fun for naught.

It isn't until the man finds a flatmate, named John Watson, that Moriarty actually learns Sir Never-sees-sun's name.

Moriarty decides he hates John Watson the moment that the man—Mr. Holmes, no, Sherlock, please—begins clearing space in an embarrassed manner, as if he's ashamed of the mess the flat is in.

Moriarty never minded the mess.

Then, the cabbie brings Sherlock home, dragging the unconscious man into his chair. Moriarty looks at the cabbie—blue eyes blazing with a strange, feral glee—and then to Sherlock Holmes, looking strange in his sleep. Vulnerable, Moriarty decides. Sherlock looks _vulnerable _and _young_. How old is he, anyway? His late twenties?

Sherlock jolts awake and falls gracelessly from his chair. Even drugged and likely delirious, he's defiant. Then, there's the game. Two pills. Moriarty watches from over Sherlock's shoulder, waiting. He waits, anticipating. Will the man die now? Will he live? It must be a trick.

A bullet shoots through the wall. Moriarty knows the shooter, and he loathes John Watson even more. He was _watching_. He was watching Sherlock Holmes play a dangerous game, and watching Sherlock Holmes play dangerous games is simply _fascinating_.

Moriarty decides he wants him—Sherlock Holmes, the proud, brilliant, defiant man. Moriarty doesn't want him as a friend or companion. He wants to _own _Sherlock Holmes. He wants to own Sherlock Holmes, so he can crack him, break him, shatter him like _glass_. Moriarty wants to see the defiant man bleeding, begging, sobbing. He doesn't really want Sherlock _dead_. Death is so _boring_. He wants Sherlock alive and hurting.

Of course, John Watson is expendable.

A mere thought makes John Watson ill. It's disgusting because suddenly Sherlock Holmes reveals that he has a heart, and John Watson owns it. No. No, no, no, Moriarty thinks. No, he's mine. He's _mine_. I _own _Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock strokes John's hair from his forehead, his ordinarily cold eyes softened. "Please, wake up, John," he whispers. "You've been sleeping for over a day now."

Moriarty grows bored from watching. He wants Sherlock _to hurt_, but the man does nothing. He just _sits there_. Sherlock Holmes has grown _boring_.

Sherlock Holmes has grown boring, and John Watson has grown even duller.

He makes John cough up blood and appreciates the contrast between John's scarlet blood and Sherlock's white hands. "John! John!"

There is panic in Sherlock's silver-blue eyes. The man moves John, ensuring that the older man doesn't choke to death on his blood. Sherlock runs, calls the doctors. He's _panicked_. He's _scared_.

Moriarty laughs.

Sherlock leaves with the people who come for John. While he's gone, another man creeps into the house. Sherlock returns, looking defeated. How disappointing. The man was too easy to break.

Sherlock scowls at the strange man. "Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

"How is the good doctor?"

"Don't you know?"

"Please, I would hardly care over something so trivial."

Something flashes in Sherlock's gaze. Moriarty realizes, suddenly, that he's underestimated Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock isn't defeated—no, not yet. His pet may be hurt, but Sherlock is hardly defeated. He'll grieve. He'll mourn, and he'll move on.

Moriarty doesn't want that. He wants Sherlock broken. Or does he?

Moriarty suddenly finds himself faced with a strange dilemma. If he breaks Sherlock, the game is over. No one wants to play with a broken toy, but playing with Sherlock is proving to be very fun indeed. Therein lies the problem, the problem he can't quite solve, because he loses either way.

He'll give Sherlock back his pet to acknowledge the mortal man's strength, but ultimately it will be for naught. Moriarty will win. Sherlock is _his_, not John Watson's, and Moriarty always has gotten what he wanted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own (sadly) the wonderful series ****_Sherlock._**

**A/N: **As an aside, this fic exists in the universe of the unaired pilot of _A Study in Pink_. The only important differences (as far as this is concerned) are that Moriarty was not involved with the cabbie, and the cabbie ended up drugging Sherlock and attempted to kill him in his flat.

* * *

Sherlock and John leave the flat. Days later, John Watson returns. Sherlock is with him, walking on crutches. There is a massive cast on his right leg, and the flashes of skin Moriarty can see are marred with bruises and gashes. John Watson doesn't help the man up the stairs, and Moriarty knows that John knows helping Sherlock would just offend the man.

Moriarty is furious because someone hurt _his _Sherlock. He decides to vent his anger on John Watson and realizes he can see the man's dreams.

Moriarty sees it in John's dreams—quick, brutal flashes of emotion and events. He sees Sally Donovan, who always called Sherlock a freak, standing amidst the crumbled remains of a building. She frantically waves her arms and shouts, "Over here! Lestrade!"

The woman begins moving debris that looks far too heavy for her, and John is running, cutting his legs on pieces of glass, brick, and rock. Donovan drops to her knees. "Holmes, can you hear me?" she asks. "_Answer me_! Freak! Holmes! _Sherlock_!"

John kneels beside Donovan, relief flooding him as Sherlock rasps, "John? John, where..."

"Beside me," Donovan says. "Safe."

John peers around the woman into the space where the jagged, broken remains of the building is open. There's a hole, and John Watson can just barely see Sherlock Holmes. The man looks horrible, crouched down on the ground, his hair matted with something that shines in the darkness. John knows it's blood. His pale skin has bruises and scrapes. John hears crying, and it isn't Sherlock's. "The girl," Sally says. "Where is she?"

"Underneath me," Sherlock gasps. "The building came down, and I...I had to protect..."

Sherlock's words give way to a coughing fit, and John sees dark liquid drip from his lips. "Sherlock, shut-up," John says.

Lestrade joins them, the team hurrying to clear the space. "It'll take time," says Lestrade. "Hold on, Sherlock!"

"Can you move, Sherlock?" asks Lestrade. "Can you bring the girl up?"

"I can't," he says. "I...I can't move. Take her."

Sherlock shifts, something which clearly causes him pain, and John sees the girl—the one they were looking for, clinging to the detective's shirt. "Oh, God," Donovan says. "I can fit. I'm going down."

Before anyone can protest, the woman is in the hole. She returns a moment later, passing up the eight-year-old girl. Someone gets her, but John's not paying attention. His eyes are on the hole where Sherlock Holmes is. Sally looks over her shoulder. "I'll stay down here, Lestrade," she says. "Send a first aid kit."

When they finally manage to free Sherlock, John frantically searches his friend for injuries. Sherlock's right leg is broken in three places. His pelvis appears to bother him. His left shoulder is dislocated, and there's a terrible amount of blood. His forehead has a gash. There are scrapes and newly formed bruises. John stays with him, wanting to be there, wanting to treat Sherlock himself. He doesn't want the man to be given into the care of strangers.

* * *

They're in the hospital, Sherlock being forced to stay because of his head injury. He's lucky. Everyone keeps repeating that. He's alive and doing well. He doesn't even have a concussion, but Mycroft is insistent that Sherlock stay. "Why did you do it?" John asks, sitting by the man's bed.

Sherlock's face betrays nothing. "Do what?"

"Make me leave. You tricked me."

"I didn't want this to happen to you."

"I would've faced it with you."

"I know."

"You're an idiot," John says.

Pain and fear flash across Sherlock's face for the briefest of moments, but John knows Sherlock well. He knows to watch for the quick, fleeting emotions. "You're angry with me," Sherlock states. "I saved the little girl. You shouldn't be angry with me."

John wonders why he feels so guilty and awful. Sherlock was the one who told him to leave, who told him that he'd be right behind him. "You could've died," says John.

"I know."

"Don't do that to me again, Sherlock."

John's fists tangle into the bedsheets, and Sherlock casts him a bewildered glance. "Do what? Keep you safe?"

"Leave me out," says John. "I think it ought to be my choice whether I want to risk my life running after a madman—not yours. Don't try to control me, Sherlock."

"As you wish."

It's Sherlock's fault he's hurt, then, for being selfless. Sherlock isn't supposed to be selfish, and Moriarty shakes his head. "No, no, Sherlock," he says in a sing-song voice. "That wasn't good. You could've died, and I don't want you to die—not yet."

* * *

Moriarty can't see Sherlock's dreams. Maybe it's because Sherlock's mind is so complicated. Maybe it's because the man is on so many painkillers and drugs. He dives into Sherlock's mind and is met with a murky swamp. Moriarty decides to hurt him another way. He _pushes _with some ethereal energy he doesn't understand, and Sherlock hurts. The man moves away from his touch as Moriarty presses hard on the bruises and slices open the gashes healing on the man's face. There's a surprising amount of blood. Sherlock whimpers in his sleep, and Moriarty smiles. "Oh, very good, Sherlock, make that noise for me again."

He pushes too hard, and Sherlock bolts awake. The man gasps and puts a hand to his face. Moriarty scowls at Sherlock for ruining his game. The man struggles to the bathroom, not using the crutches, and staunches the bleeding. He does it with such calm that it's infuriating.

Moriarty punishes him for being too calm. Sherlock gasps and nearly collapses in an effort to lower himself to the ground. He holds a hand to his stomach and winces. Moriarty absentmindedly kicks the man's pelvis, and Sherlock yelps in surprise. "Sherlock!"

Moriarty hears John rush up the stairs, and Moriarty retreats to watch.

* * *

John stands in the bathroom doorway, watching as his flatmate empties his stomach into the toilet. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallows, his face wrinkling in distaste. "Sherlock."

"Why am I sick, John?"

"You're _bleeding_!"

Sherlock gropes for the sink, trying to lift himself from the ground. John hastily offers him a hand. "I can do it myself!" Sherlock snaps.

He rises and nearly hits his head on the edge of the sink. Sherlock turns around and hoists himself up onto the edge of the sink. "My stitches came out," Sherlock says, tapping his forehead. "Fix them."

He doesn't have to tell John, who's already preparing to do just that. "How did you do this, Sherlock?" John asks.

"I don't know."

The doctor's gaze is disbelieving. "I'll give you something," says John, "To help you sleep?"

"No, I'm not tired."

John sighs, having finished sewing up the wound on Sherlock's forehead and bandaging the man's face. "Just this once," John says. "For me?"

"Tea," Sherlock says. "I'll be there in a moment."

John's eyes are pained, but he does as the man says. Sherlock struggles to leave the room, and Moriarty follows him down the stairs. He decides to wait until Sherlock is better to hurt him—to _really _hurt him. As amusing as it is to see Sherlock struggling and hear him whimpering in pain, it's not really a win if the man can't fight back, and it's all about the game.


End file.
